The Young Wolf of the North
by AndyRiddleSnape
Summary: Harry Potter manages to kill Lord Voldemort but the price is too expensive, and he ends up dying. However, the gods decide to give it a try. It is time for the future King of the North to ascend. Harry!RobbStark. Reincarnation.


**Hello!**

**Here AndyRiddle with a new story. But this time I have moved away from the funny romantic yaoi oneshots to give birth to this project that I have had in mind more serious.**

**What would have happened if Harry reincarnated in the great Westeros?**

**I know there have been many fics, of which I have based some, that make this perspective but most with Harry as Jon Snow or as a new member of the Stark or Targaryen house.**

**On the other hand, I have thought about making him reincarnate in one of my favorite characters: Robb Stark.**

**In this story, Harry is not the typical slytherin or super powerful wizard. No. It will be more or less the gryffindor of the original saga -although he will also show his slytherin and ravenclaw veins-, with the adhesive that he will be able to use little magic -he will go more by the sword-, only somewhat more prepared by the war against the Dark Lord and willing to give anything for yours.**

**In addition there are other characters from the Harry Potter universe who will reincarnate in the world of Westeros, causing some characters to have drastic changes in appearance or personality.**

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and ASIOF do not belong to me, I just have fun with them creating a better world in my opinion.**

* * *

**The Young Wolf of the North.**

**Chapter One:**

**Reincarnation**

* * *

Harold James Potter staggered, feeling the blood boil. He felt sore, prey to unbearable suffering, as he pressed the wand in his right hand.

He tried to get up from the ground, but his arms looked like jelly.

"M-move," he encouraged himself, trying to get up. "Move, damn it!"

He fell back on the ground.

Without knowing exactly why, he remembered the day he received the letter from Hogwarts.

His life had been total shit until that day.

He had been bothered by his uncles and by his obese cousin, had been seen as a phenomenon by those in the neighborhood, and then afterwards he had entered a world previously unknown to him.

Before he knew it, he plunged into that new door.

He met great friends, but he also encountered the negative face of that world: Lord Voldemort, responsible for the death of his parents, and the Death Eaters behind his heels, looking for every opportunity to want to kill him since he was chosen for kill the Dark Lord.

Every year, Voldemort tried to kill him and every year Harry managed to beat him.

It was clear, in his own opinion, that he was always going to be able to stop him, no matter what happened.

Even despite the death of his godfather Sirius, his uncle Remus and Tonks, and Dumbledore's, Harry always believed that he was finally going to stop the Dark Lord, ending so many deaths spilled by the cruelty of a bastard who advocated the purity of blood being a halfblood.

And yes, he did.

He had managed to defeat him.

But at a fairly high price.

Hermione had died, tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange; Ron had had a confrontation against a large number of Death Eaters during the final battle and had ended up sacrificing by making a maximum bombardment, eliminating most of them; Neville, the shy and embarrassed Neville, had been dueling with Bellatrix and Rudolphus Lestrange to death, resulting in his death but also that of his adversaries; and Luna and Ginny were killed by Antonin Doholov.

His friends, his brothers.

That, not counting all other losses of the Side of Light.

He, for his part, had fought in the fields of Hogwarts against the Dark Lord, both driven by anger, the desire to kill the other, the desire to emerge victorious over the contrary.

In the end everything opted for Harry, managing to kill the Unnamable once and for all. But he had been injured, receiving a Sectumsempra.

"Move... H-Harry Potter," he growled, trying to get up.

He fell again, coughing up blood, being seized by convulsions.

He knew he was going to die, he felt it, but he refused.

No, he couldn't die, not at that moment.

He had come so far... So far.

Why?

Why was this happening to him?

He felt his vision blur, and everything began to spin.

The pain, at its highest point, began to go down and, instead, a cold began to scale its limbs.

"N-n-no," he spoke in a broken voice, with the few forces he had.

Why?

He took one last look at the sky, cloudy, before everything went dark.

''J-just...'' he told himself, while the cold now climbed up his chest.

Only if he could have another chance, he would have liked to say but it was too late. Harold 'Harry' James Potter, son of James and Lily Potter, at seventeen years of age, had died.

Or that is what it looked like.

* * *

**Riverrun's Castle, Riverlands**

**(283)**

Catelyn tenderly watched the face of the little creature that was constantly sucking from her chest. It was quite beautiful in her opinion.

"And mine," she told herself, "only mine."

Her married life could not be said to have been the best.

She had been initially destined to marry Brandon Stark, future heir of the House Stark of the North.

Brandon was a good man. Polite and nice.

Unfortunately when Rhaegar Targaryen had captured the young Lyanna, the younger sister of her promised, Brandon and Lord Rickard Stark went to King's Landing to demand his highness King Aerys to return the girl, the king had had the brilliant idea to execute them .

That had created as a consequence that the North and many Southern Houses rebelled against the government.

For this reason, Eddard Stark, brother of the late Bran, had married her to take Brandon's place, as per custom.

However, she could not enjoy it much, just a few nights of honeymoon, because the Stark left with his troops and Robert Baratheon to rescue the young Lyanna.

The war lasted more than a year, a fairly long year, in which the Targaryen domain fell and a new dynasty was raised in the hands of the Baratheons.

But the most important thing, at least for her, is that she had given birth to a small child. Her little child.

A boy with the black hair of the Stark but with the green eyes, characteristic recessive of the House Tully.

"Congratulations, My Lady," said Maester Luwin, as he approached her, with a smile.

He was a gray and often man. He had gray, insightful eyes that saw many things. The hair, the little he had left at his age, was also gray. He wore a gray wool tunic edged with white fur, the colors of the Starks.

He was the maester of the Stark, and, during that year, a good confidant and the person in charge of helping her with childbirth.

"Thank you, Master Luwin," she said, looking at the man for a few seconds before returning her eyes to the baby.

"How do you plan to call him, My Lady?"

She seemed to think.

What name to give to her son?

She could call him Hoster or Edmure, like her lord Father or her brother, but she doubted that her lord Husband would like to give a child Stark a name of Tully.

She finally found a perfect name, one he had heard from a Luwin story.

It was a name that belonged to the founder of the House Stark, when the North was still an independent kingdom.

The first King of the North.

"Robb" Lady Catelyn Tully of Stark looked at the maester "Robb of the House Stark"

She looked at those green eyes again of her son, her Robb, and smiled.

It was a good name.

A pretty good one for herfirstborn.

If she had known how prophetic the name she had just put on that child's shoulders for the future, then Catelyn would have thought better.

* * *

**The North**

**(298)**

The day had dawned fresh and clear, with a life-giving cold that marked the end of summer. They set off with the dawn to see the king's justice.

Robb looked at the sky thoughtfully before turning his eyes to his companions.

They were a group of twenty people.

Among them, his younger brother, Bran.

It was the first time that Bran was considered old enough to accompany his father and his brothers to witness the king's justice, and Robb understood the nervousness of his younger brother.

They saw the deserter tied hand and foot to the wall of the fort, waiting for the justice of the king. The man was old and bony, little taller than Robb.

He had lost both ears and a finger in some frost, and dressed all in black, like a brother of the Night's Watch, although the skins he wore were dirty and tattered.

The breath of the man and the horse intermingled in clouds of steam in the cold morning when his lord father made them cut the ties that tied the man to the wall and dragged him before him.

Robb and Jon remained mounted, very still and upright, while Bran, on the back of his pony, tried to pretend that he was over seven years old and that it was not the first time he saw something like that.

Jon and he exchanged glances, silently.

Moments later, Jon spurred his horse towards Bran.

A light breeze blew through the gate of the fort.

Above the flag of the Winterk Stark fluttered: a gray

direwolf racing across an ice-white field.

His Father stood solemnly on the back of his horse, his long hair agitated by the wind. He had a very short beard, dotted with gray hair, which made him look older than he was thirty-five years old. That day he had a grim expression and did not resemble at all the man who at night sat by the fire and spoke softly to Robb about the duty of a lord.

Robb could say that he had taken off his father's face and put on Lord Stark of Winterfell.

On that cold morning there were questions and answers, to see if the accused had any information that could be relevant.

In the end, his lord father gave an order, and two of the guards dragged the ragged man up to an ironwood stump in the center of the square.

They forced him to rest his head on the hard black wood.

Lord Stark dismounted from his horse and Theon Greyjoy, his pupil, carried his sword.

It was called Ice.

It was as wide as a man's hand and in an upright position was even taller than Robb.

The blade was Valyrian steel, forged with enchantments and black as smoke. Nothing had an edge comparable to Valyrian steel.

His father took off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard.

He took hold of Ice with both hands and said:

"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die. "

Lord Eddard lifted the greatsword high above his head.

"Keep the pony under control," he heard Jon say to Bran "And don't look away. Father will notice if you do."

His father cut off the man's head with a blow, firm and sure. The blood, red as summer wine, splashed the snow. One of the horses got angry and had to be held by the reins to prevent him from escaping at a gallop.

Robb didn't look away from the blood.

The snow that surrounded the stump drank it greedily and turned red before his eyes.

The head bounced against a thick root and kept rolling. The head went to stop near Greyjoy's feet.

Theon was a young man of about seventeen, skinny and reddish-haired.

The Greyjoy looked at the head before kicking him away from him, muttering something strange.

"Ass," Jon murmured, in a voice low enough so Greyjoy wouldn't hear the comment.

Robb shook his head, sighing.

Theon and Jon had never got along, although Robb and the Greyjoy were friends.

He spurred the horse in the direction of Bran and Jon.

He watched as Jon put a hand on Bran's shoulder, which looked up at his bastard brother.

"You have done very well," said Jon solemnly

"Every day you become more motherly, Snow," Robb told his brother, on the way back to Winterfell.

Jon looked at him with a raised eyebrow at his half brother, more fun than offended. They always got along that way, arguing, but deep down they were inseparable.

"And you become more idiotic every day, Stark," Jon said. "Hopefully you're not a coward like the deserter, that would be to die for."

"The deserter died like a brave man," Robb said, mocking.

"No," said Jon Snow in a calm voice. "That was not courage. He was scared to death. You could see him in the eyes, Stark."

Jon's eyes were so dark gray that they almost looked black, and they looked at everything. He was about Robb's age, but they didn't look alike at all except in black hair (although Robb had reddish streaks in his hair). Jon was slender and Robb muscular, he was agile and light while his half brother was strong and fast.

"Let the Others take their eyes," he cursed. "He died like a man. A race to the bridge?"

"Sure," Jon nodded, spurring his mount.

Robb let out a curse and shot after him, and they galloped down the path together.

He was laughing and provoking him, and Jon galloped silently and concentrated. The hooves of their horses raised snow clouds in the race.

Robb had to admit that he felt pretty good, at least in this new world.

The last thing he remembered was being hurt, dying, in a meadow before everything went black and in the blink of an eye, he had reappeared to the world in the form of a baby.

Everything had been erased from his mind. All the fighting, all the tears, all the sadness, all the suffering. Even his name from before had been forgotten, and that of his friends from the other world. He only remembered vague things about the appearances of those he met in the other world.

Now he had two parents, four brothers and a half brother as well as a good friend in the form of Theon.

"Hey, why are you stopping?" He asked when he saw Jon stop on the road and get off the saddle. Robb stopped his horse and dismounted.

He saw him kneel in front of a white mound, and repeated the same operation as Jon.

It was a dead wolf.

Robb sank to his knees in the snow, throwing his hood back and the sun tore hair from his hair. He cradled something in his arm, and began to speak in excited whispers with his brother.

The riders advanced cautiously among the snowdrifts, always looking for firm points in that hidden and uneven terrain. Jory Cassel and Theon were the first to arrive with the boys.

Theon was arguing with Jory while riding. Robb saw him make a gasp when he saw the body of the direwolf.

"Gods!" Theon escaped while trying to control his horse and at the same time unsheathe his sword.

"Get away from that, Robb!" Jory shouted, who had already wielded his sword, with the prancing saddle.

"It won't hurt you, Jory," Robb said with a smile as he looked up from the bulge in his arms. "She's dead."

"It's a monster," said the Greyjoy.

Robb felt the warm little body of the puppy against his arm.

"It's no monster," Jon said calmly. "It's a wolfish wolf. They're much bigger than the other wolves, Greyjoy."

"Two hundred years ago, you don't see a wolf wolf south of the Wall," said Theon.

"Well, I'm seeing one now," Jon replied.

Bran, on the other hand, noticed the bulge in Robb's arms.

Bran let out a cry of emotion and approached. The puppy was nothing more than a little black-gray fur ball, he hadn't opened his eyes yet. He was sniffing blindly against Robb's chest, looking for milk between the leather folds of his clothes, still whining.

Bran extended his hand hesitantly.

"Come on," Robb said. "Touch it, nothing happens."

Bran made a quick and nervous caress to the puppy, and turned to hear Jon's voice.

"Take it" Jon put a second puppy in Bran's arms "There are five."

Bran sat in the snow and pressed the puppy against his face. He had a soft, warm coat that caressed his cheek.

"Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years," muttered Hullen, the master of horse. "I like it not."

"It's a sign," said Jory.

"It's just a dead animal, Jory," Eddard said with a frown.

He seemed worried. The snow creaked under his boots as he walked around the body.

"What killed her?"

"He has something in his throat." Robb pointed out, proud to have found the answer even before his father asked the question. "There, just below the jaw."

His father knelt and felt under the head of the beast. He yanked, and raised the object for others to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.

There was a sudden silence in the group. The men looked at the pole, uneasy, and none dared to say anything.

"It's incredible that he lived long enough to give birth," said his father as he threw aside the pole and wiped his hands in the snow. His voice broke the spell.

"Maybe she didn't live that long," said Jory. "It is said ... Maybe she was already dead when the puppies were born."

"Born of death," another man intervened. "Even worse luck."

"It doesn't matter," said Hullen. "Soon they will be dead too."

Bran let out a cry of dismay. Jon frowned.

"The sooner the better," Theon Greyjoy nodded calmly, and drew his sword. "Bring that beast here, Bran."

"Keep that sword, Theon," Robb said and, for a moment, his voice sounded as imperious as his father's, like that of the lord it would be one day. "We're going to stay with the puppies."

"It's impossible, boy," said Harwin, who was the son of Hullen.

"We will do them a favor by killing them," said Hullen.

Robb looked up at his father, but only found a frown.

"What Hullen says is true, son. A quick death is better than dying of cold and hunger."

"Ser Rodrik's dog gave birth again last week," he said stubbornly. "It was a small litter, only two puppies lived. It will have plenty of milk."

"She will kill them as soon as they try to suck."

"Lord Stark," said Jon.

It was strange that he addressed his father so formally, he thought. Robb looked at him.

"There are five puppies" he continued "Three males and two females."

"So what, Jon?"

"You have five legitimate children. Three boys and two girls. The direwolf is the emblem of your House. These puppies are destined for your children, my lord."

Robb saw how his father's expression changed, he saw the looks that the rest of the men exchanged.

At that moment Robb hated himself for whole heart for his stubbornness, when he understood what his brother had done.

The accounts squared only because Jon had been excluded. Jon had included the girls, including Rickon, who was just a baby, but not the bastard who bore the last name Snow who, as dictated by custom, should have in the North all the unlucky ones born without their own lastname.

"Don't you want a puppy for you, Jon?" Asked his father, kindly, who had also understood.

"Jon..." Robb tried to say.

"The direwolf flies on the House Stark banner," Jon pointed out. "I am not a Stark, Father."

His lord father looked at Jon thoughtfully.

"I will feed mine in person, Father," Bran promised. "I will soak a rag in hot milk to suck it."

Robb nodded, somewhat dissatisfied yet.

"It is easy to say, but you will see that doing so is not so much" the father said after studying his children long and carefully "If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?"

The puppy was twisting in his arms and licking his face with a warm tongue

"You must train them as well," their father said. "You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man's arm off his

shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?"

"Yes, father," said Bran.

"Yes," said Robb.

"And despite everything you do, the puppies may die."

"They won't die," Robb said. "We won't allow it."

"Then, you can keep them. Jory, Desmond, collect the rest of the puppies. It is time for us to return to Winterfell."

Only when they were back on horseback and on the move, Robb allowed himself to savor the bittersweet taste of victory.

He took the puppy between the folds of leather garments to give him warmth and protect him in the long ride back home. He wondered what name he was going to put.

In the middle of the bridge, Jon stopped suddenly.

"What's up, Jon?" asked his father.

"Don't you hear it?"

Robb could hear the wind between the trees, the sound of the horse's hooves against the tamarind boards, and the groans of his hungry puppy, but Jon seemed to perceive something else.

"I have it," Jon added.

He spun the horse and galloped back across the bridge. They saw him dismount in the snow next to the dead wolf and how he knelt. A moment later he returned riding towards them. He was smiling.

"This one must have moved away from the others," he said.

"Or they threw him out," his father replied, his eyes fixed on the sixth puppy.

The puppy had white fur, while the rest of the bait puppies were gray. The eyes were as red as the ragged man's blood that had died that morning. It seemed very strange that he already had them open, while the others were still blind.

"Leave him, Jon," said Theon Greyjoy, "he will die even before the others."

"No, Greyjoy" Jon said throwing an icy look at his father's pupul "This one is mine."

Robb watched the dog's reddish eyes and felt a chill go up his spine without knowing why exactly.

He said nothing until they returned to the road.

Jon and Robb had stayed behind, riding last.

"Hey"

Jon looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Is something wrong, Stark?" Jon saw him, waiting for a sarcastic or poisonous comment.

Robb saw him.

"I just want to thank you for what you did to convince Father, Snow. And tell you that ..." The words weighed a little, maybe because he had never said anything like that "no matter what, you're still my brother."

Jon looked surprised, before his face turned red.

"Don't thank anything, Stark," the bastard told him. "I just did what I should. The family stays together. Winter is coming."

Robb nodded.

"Winter is coming"

Later, in a months, he would realize how true his words were.

* * *

**Note (28/10/2019): ****I know that the founder of the Stark house was Brandon the Builder, but for reasons of the story I decided to modify that detail.**


End file.
